


My True Love Sent to Me

by larissabernstein



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Domestic, Fluff, Hannigram Holiday Gift Exchange, M/M, Tumblr: hannigramholidayexchange
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: Will and Hannibal's first Christmas together, told in 5 scenes. Takes place post-season-3. Updates once a week.Created for theHannigram Holiday Fic Exchange, for made-in-rivendell. Happy holidays! Sorry for the delay.





	

The bird is not sitting idly in a pear tree. 

Instead, together with a doppelganger, it takes centre stage in the festive tableau on the platter, their skin a crisp golden brown that’s beautifully accented by the blackcurrant coulis that surrounds the roasted fowl like a small pool of thick venous blood. 

Flavours of thyme and apricots, and something stronger, darker – liver maybe? – join the already mouthwatering smell when Hannibal cuts into one of the birds and puts a generous piece on Will’s plate. More sauce is drizzled over the meat in elaborate swirls.

“I believe in the merit of using their hearts and livers in the stuffing,” Hannibal says, as he finally serves himself and sits down opposite Will. 

“The god’s lot of the sacrificial meal.”

Hannibal chuckles. “We are past sacrifices, I think. But organs do give an especially savoury note to what is otherwise a rather simple traditional dish.”

 _Nothing is ever simple with you_ , Will does not say out loud. Judging by Hannibal’s expression, somewhere between fond indulgence and smug self-approval, he has heard it just the same. 

 

Since winter has begun to coat their new house and garden in an unexpectedly thick white blanket, effectively silencing the major part of the natural soundscape, a kind of quiet rapport has developed between Hannibal and Will. It is not the awkward walk on eggshells anymore that was their M.O. around each other during the first few months after the cliff – a time that was spent healing and planning and organising. 

 

Les Baronnies had not seen that much snow for decades, said the old cheese monger at the market when Will made one of his recent trips to the nearest village. Or at least that is what Will gathered from his heavily accented French which was interspersed with Gavot every few words. The weather, however, speaks for itself. Will was lucky to stock up on supplies and groceries before the heavy snowfall resulted in several roads getting closed for traffic. The mistral roaring down towards the coast has caused the temperatures to plummet and turned their part of the countryside into an icy winter wonderland complete with bright blue skies and glorious sunshine. It is a soothing and uplifting sight indeed, balm for Will’s spirit every single time he steps outside to fill his lungs with cool crisp air. At the same time, it is different enough from Wolftrap to keep the whispers of the past at bay. The view from their garden opens up into fields of lavender, now well-hidden under their snowy cover like a promise, with the ever-dominating Mont Ventoux, the "Beast of the Provence", guarding them silently.

 

So this is their Christmas dinner then, in _their_ new home, with the warm woody smell of fresh furniture all around them, and a small decorated pine tree in the corner, with logs crackling in the fireplace, and food on the table that is decidedly _not_ _people_ – all in all a quiet and more or less modest affair that is so incredibly domestic it borders on the surreal. They are so many things, but can they be just two middle-aged men shacking up in the Provence and playing house? The weight of past events is still heavy and every thought is overloaded with meaning; there are so many things he should address and words he should finally speak out, but all Will can say is, “This is really good.” And he feels the need to gesture at his plate with the fork, just to make sure, because with this sentence he could mean just about everything and he is not sure he wants Hannibal to know that he indeed does.

“Thank you,” Hannibal replies with a tiny nod but looks away so quickly that Will is sure he, too, knows and means and wants and does.

The roast is just this side of sweet, with an unobtrusive gamey undertone. 

“Is there any symbolism I should be aware of?” Will asks. It is a rhetorical question, of course, because when has Hannibal ever done or said or created anything without symbolism? 

Hannibal does not disappoint. “According to Greek myth, the first partridge appeared when Daedalus threw Perdix off the sacred hill of Athena in a fit of jealous rage when the student turned out to be more talented than his teacher. Athena saved him by transforming him into a bird mid-fall. A bird that henceforth avoided great heights, that is, and resorted to nesting on the ground.”

It is obvious that Hannibal waits for this to sink in, the way his smile and gaze linger pointedly on Will. Maybe some things have simmered long enough and need to be addressed after all.

“However,” Hannibal continues and saves Will from further stewing, “any symbolism you might see in this particular myth is rather accidental. Partridges are spectacularly bad at flying, and while the myth tries to give a good reason for this fact, I doubt that his being transformed into a partridge would have helped poor Perdix. If anything, it is a cruel joke on the part of the goddess.”

Will swallows his last bite of Christmas roast. “So, this recipe…”

“… Is just an old favourite of mine which I hoped you would enjoy. Festive and traditional, yet quickly prepared. Sometimes a partridge is just a partridge, dear Will.”

Hannibal’s smile is almost coy when he raises his glass. Will can’t help smiling back, because maybe, maybe this _is_  simple for once.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the Provence (Southern France), in a not otherwise specified place (let our dear Murder Husbands enjoy some privacy!) in the area called Les Baronnies. Legend has it that the Carthaginian leader Hannibal crossed Les Baronnies with his elephants during the Second Punic War (218 - 201 B.C.). Heavy snow is not exactly common there, but it did occur a few times in the 20th century.


End file.
